


This Old Sun Keeps Burning

by Folle



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fade to Black, Flashbacks, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Historical Accuracy, Internal Conflict, Introspection, Like the slowest burn you can imagine, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Oblivious Pining, Original Character(s), Paranoia, Propositions, Psychological Trauma, Religion, Shaving, Slow Burn, is that an actual tag?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Folle/pseuds/Folle
Summary: Based on my own horrific experience: A paranoid Dismas comes back from fighting the necromancer, only to be face to face with a Reynauld who died months ago. (aka, i fucked up and Reynauld died when I fought the Necromancer Lord, I took Dismas with me to fight him again a bit later, and when I came back I got the 'from beyond' event and my boy Reynauld was the one I chose).
Relationships: Dismas/Abomination, Dismas/Leper, Dismas/Original Female Character, Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, so I've been working on this for a while, but I haven't been playing Darkest Dungeon for a bit so *shrugs*. Most of the names of the characters are from the generated names so there's going to be a guide in the notes at the end of each chapter for who's who. 
> 
> Basically I'm too lazy to learn the 'canon' names and stick with the babes I got in my game.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited while I overhaul and try to write a new chapter, hopefully :3

Fucking prig. Absolute arsehole.

Dismas doesn't know why he doesn't just bail out on that seedy heir, Mortimer or whatever the hell his name really is. They don’t get paid, sure, but he doesn't have to pay for any of his equipment or medical treatment, the tavern was free, and the heir lends his own money to fuel their gambling habits, which is nice on occasion. But no amount of gold in the world or free stuff is worth his own hide.

He knows those sad looks that are thrown his way were only full of pity and contempt. Sooner or later, the heir to the Mortimer estate is going to get sick of Dismas, see how he doesn't mesh well with the rest of the group, and kick him out on his ass.

There's been more than one he has. Someone who can’t make the cut, who runs off into the dark and not come home. He already sent a letter ahead to ask the caretaker to fire one of the replacement crusaders that was hired after –

When Reynauld had –

Something deep in his stomach twists horribly. They, of course, need a holy man who can fight against swathes of unholy fiends that plague the land. He supposes the boy – that's all he can be considered, really – sitting next to him was nice enough. Dudley, his name is, knew which end of a sword to hold, and is there to catch anyone who stumbles. Sure, he might want to slice open corpses to see what's inside, but who doesn't?

The whelp at the hamlet is little more than a sniveling child who had been through only a single trek through the weald and barely made it through.

Dudley puts him to shame, and Mortimer has the common sense to realize only one crusader is needed, really. Maybe that letter had been about how he went off the deep end. Doesn't really explain why he’s so tight lipped the entire ride back to the hamlet.

Mortimer has, after all, hired a new gunslinger some time back. From the same brigand group, nonetheless. You can tell from the color of scarf and the shadows that hang over his face. He’s respectable, doesn't inflate his own ego, but the heir is taking him out more and more than he does Dismas. Maybe it’s because he wants to show him the ropes.

Or maybe it’s because of those sad, sad looks. Pity, because Dismas is broken and not needed anymore.

The new coat, too high a quality for someone like him, gifted right before the mission is probably a parting gift. One last little 'fuck you' before Dismas has to crawl back to his old gang, and probably be sliced down by whatever party Mortimer pulls through the weald on another pointless quest.

The sudden hand that lands on his shoulder makes him flinch, and another grips his wrist before he can pull his dagger out.

"Easy there," the mellow voice of Aungier does nothing to soothe his weary spirit. He doesn’t loosen the grip on his dagger. "You seem out of sorts, my friend. I only wish to ease your pain."

"Yeah? Shove off. Touch me again with your freakish demon hands, and you'll lose 'em," he growls, gripping the hilt of his blade even tighter.

Aungier huffs, and rolls his eyes, hardly perturbed by his words. In the heat of battle, Dismas' words might have caused a flash of fear to cross his eyes, but on the bumpy ride to the hamlet, he looks more like he’s dealing with one of the brats running through the abbey. "As you wish. Shall I heal up that gash on your side, or must I forfeit a limb for that as well?"

Despite the shoddy patching job Ormund tried to give through her endless berating, the blood is seeping through the bandages steadily, forming a dark, wet patch on Dismas' coat. From the glare in Aungier's eyes, he can tell he’s going to only rip it open wider. But a voice in the back of his head tells him not to care.

"Fucking hell," he heaves a sigh, and shucks off his coat, and vest. "Fine, just get it over with."

With steady hands, Aungier peels the shirt from the wound, and carefully removes the soaked bandages. He whispers tongues under his breath, and in a wondrous show of power, his skull rises above him, and his eyes flash red.

The wound on Dismas' side knits up swiftly, leaving a sealed seam where once a gaping wound was. The chilling nausea that comes along with such supernatural healing overcomes him. He leaps to the side of the cart to vomit onto the moving dirt path, upheaving the meal that Dudley had prepared for them hours prior.

The man in question pulls him back down, resting a wet cloth against his head, gripping his upper arm through the tremors that wrack him. The bastard must have done this on purpose. Make a fool out of him in front of the others. There's no telling what sort of sneaky tricks Aungier hid up his sleeve.

"Motherless bastar-"

"Ha! A mewling infant, you are. Unable to quietly handle when someone messes up a trite healing spell," sneers Ormund, pulling the brim of her hat down over her eyes. She kicks Dismas in the calf before pillowing her hands behind her head.

"Behave back there, or you all walk home!" shouts Mortimer from the driver's seat. The chill of nausea returns.

Mortimer hasn't said a word so far, other than these, and his normally mellow, steady tone is snippy and colder than any night spent in the cove. Kept secrets, no doubt. 

" _Nihil novi sub sole,_ " says a voice in his head. Dismas clenches his eyes shut and clasps his hands over his ears. 

Not real, not fucking real. 

Just a burning memory that needs to be buried. 

Buried deep with that weary smile, and those sunshine eyes, and every soft word that made slumming through pits brimming full of vile creatures worth it every damn time.

_Even against the dusted and decrepit halls of the ruins, Reynauld kept his steadying silence. It was a comfortable weight across their shoulders, rather than painful and unfamiliar. Just the mere sight of him, in his battered armor that dully reflects the campfire set out at his feet._

_Dismas sat himself down a respectable distance. He could kick Reynauld’s calf, if he so pleased, but all he aims to do is scarf down some of the soldiers cooking, and pass out snuggled up in the nice, new coat the heir got him. "Can't fight properly if you're cold and unarmored." was his excuse, the first time._

_Charitable bastard, he was. Loved to dote on everyone and hide his moon stricken eyes anytime a half-decent looking man walked by. When Dismas had pulled the heir from that crashed carriage, his eyes lit up like stars. If it wasn't on account of all of them being around for so long, he was certain Mortimer would have made a move by now._

_His position as the well meaning but gruff brother was cemented in place by the time Mortimer had dragged them all back from their first excursion into the ruins._

_The thought of the kid -- hardly a kid, really, but he was far younger than anyone else Dismas had worked for – making a pass at either of them made something in his stomach twist. Like a slippery, cold eel writhing through him. It's unfamiliar and unwelcome._

_Mortimer didn't grimace when he sorted through the pack he carried, and doled out a generous amount of rations to Reynauld. The rare smile that graced the heir's face soothes everyone further._

_"Whoever packed all this food, I could kiss you," Reynauld remarks with levity, studying the rations like a battlefield. sorting and planning meals in his head that wouldn’t taste like the decaying flesh that wild woman, Albelin, would flay from carcasses in the weald._

_It was Dismas, of course, who pressured the heir into getting more from the provisioner. He tended to get the bare minimum, and hope for luck while looting. But Dismas knew these ruins were barren. He cleared his throat, and pulled his scarf further up his face._

_Reynauld doesn’t take notice, and only briefly looks up when Aungier stands in front of him with an extra ration in hand._

_"If you wouldn't mind, I find myself starving, with stomach pains unlike anything I've ever experienced before." There are many men that Dismas would believe were liars and swindlers, weak men with weaker constitutions who played games with their words to get their way._

_Aungier happened to not be amongst those men._

_Despite none of them being a doctor (Dismas suddenly missed Haute and her freaky mask being around at times like this) Mortimer comes up and eyes him up and down, before plucking the ration out of his hand and giving it to Reynauld. "My guess is tapeworm; we'll see if we can do anything about that after we eat. I will soothe your pains, for the time being, until we figure something out."_

_Ormond, who had been dragging her yarn and needles from her pack, tilts her hat up. "I may be able to help, if you're inclined. Got some snuff that'll help fix you right up."_

_"I don't think snuff will help much, but I will not refuse such a generous offer." Aungier is laid down by Mortimer, who rubs his stomach. "I feel like a child," he huffs, crossing his arms._

_"But does it aid in your pains?"_

_There is a moment of silence before he finally spoke up. "Please continue."_

_The silence resumes while everyone eats, content and pleased at full bellies. The warmth of the fire almost lulls Dismas into a sleep. Almost._

_Truth be told, his breathe is coming in shorter and shorter as he stares off into the darkness. Each time he closes his eyes, all he can see is an endless barrage of the dead and decaying they have left in their wake, thousands of eyes encased in undulating flesh, swarming like stars in the sky._

_No one spoke of it, but since the day Mortimer stepped out of the manor, with only Haute at his side, they've all been having bad dreams. When the stress starts to get to them, when they're pushed to or off the brink of sanity, they see things for only a flash of a moment. Faces melted and twisted, a burning sky full of limbs, scalding blood raining down instead of chilling skin pricks of ice cold rain._

_Dismas begins to choke on his own air when Reynauld's gauntleted hand lands on his upper arm, and rolls him onto his back._

_"That patch job of yours isn't going to hold up well," he states. "If ye need it, I can treat your ailments well enough."_

_Dismas stares up at the ruined ceiling, before flicking his eyes over to Reynauld, who had removed his helmet. A first, even for Dismas. Months upon month, damn well nearing a year at this point, of sharing barracks, and he had never caught a glimpse beyond a visor flicked up._

_He has thick, dark ashen hair, and a beard trimmed back tight against his jaw and cheeks. The streaks of grey certainly aren't from age, though Reynauld wasn't some spring chicken._

_It's a worn and world weary face, and it lent a silent tide of surprise through Dismas. The man had been married, after all. From the stories he was told, Reynauld’s wife had been a vain thing. Who fawned over pretty bits and baubles. And over Reynauld, before they were courted._

_"Spend it on someone who is in more dire need than I. Tis nothing but a scratch," he grumbles, throwing an arm over his eyes._

_"From the way I see events, you took the most severe beating in our last battle. The others can hold their own for the time being. You, though, are paler than a ghost."_

_"One step closer to oblivion. I do not mind. Though if I fall, don't leave my body here to rot."_

_Reynauld removes his gauntlets and grips Dismas by his shoulders, pulling him up to sit. "I have known you for some time, Dismas, and I will no longer abide by the despondent ways you speak of yourself. You are a loyal and reliable man, and I stand proud by your side. It is an honor to take arms with you," Reynauld rushes out in a low, hushed voice._

_Neither Ormond nor Aungier take notice from their snuff box, and the heir has long since started to nod off, staring into the flames._

_Dismas' chest tightens, as if there were an invisible fist clenching his hearts. The desperate way Reynauld’s stormy blue eyes stare into his does nothing to ease his breathing. "You must forgive me... this place -- it is getting to me. I suppose... If I am weak, then I will become a liability, and unable to protect you... and the others," he pondered._

_Reynauld's face softens, and he pats Dismas' shoulder, leaving his hand there. "You would have made a good soldier... in another life."_

_Dismas can’t help the sigh of relief, as if a weight were taken off his back. He leans into the touch before laying back, and assisting Reynauld in removing the many layers to where a bandit was able to slip a knife into his side._

_He’s already hearing Mortimer talking to himself about getting Dismas new armor, despite only getting this new coat a month ago. But that’s the heir for you, getting incredibly morose whenever any of his mercenaries – because that was all they really were – get hurt. Or Light forbid, die._

_Mortimer still visits the grave of that young jester, the first man to perish on his mission, every week._

_Reynauld works quickly and silently, dabbing away the blood of the wound, cleaning it through with burning liquor, closing it up with a few stitches, and bandaging it up tightly with clean gauze._

_And once the bandages are securely in place, covering up most of Dismas' midsection, Reynauld gives his stomach a quick pat. "You heal quickly. Praise the Light," he whispers, hardly audible to Dismas._

_Thank the stars for Mortimer, speaking up when Dismas is at a loss for words. "I'm getting a bad feeling. We're going to need someone on watch tonight. I refuse to take that risk."_

_Aungier pops up, wiping under his nose. "No need to fear, I shall ask my dark friend to watch over us," he clears his throat before an unearthly garble come out. "G'NATH ELDARCHANAR F'THG-"_

_"NO!" everyone shouts, and Ormond leapt to cover his mouth._

_"No offence, Aungie, but we'd rather not have a horror from another dimension watching us," she chides._

_Reynauld's hands are tender and slow while he helped Dismas get his clothes back in order, and sit up. "I concur. I'd rather the unholy fiends be kept from us while we are at our most vulnerable."_

_Dismas winces, and presses a hand to his wound. "I'll keep my ear to the road; none will surprise us."_

_"Nay," Reynauld speaks up immediately. "You're injured, and need nothing but to recover. I shall stand vigil to ensure none sneak up on us."_

_The heir lets out an irritated sigh. "Fine! Reynauld, you're on first watch tonight. All of you and your bickering, I swear. You'd think with how long we've all been together..." he grumbles, cushioning the pack under his head, and pulling his overcoat tighter around himself._

_Reynauld sits himself up straighter. He ensures that his own pack is tucked under Dismas' head before putting his helmet back on. He stares out past the fire, and Dismas only hears him mutter one thing before nodding off. "Light, grant me the strength to overcome whatever appears on out path."_

He can feel the sickening iron taste in the back of his throat, and saliva swelling up. Just push it down, push everything down. There’s nothing left to toss up, it would only burn. But maybe it’s what he deserves.

"Dudley, make sure Dismas makes it to the abbey. There's some business that needs attending, and he shouldn't be around for it. Ormond? I'm going to need your help before you go off to the tavern for the night."

Dismas throws a statue that had been carefully wrapped in linen at Mortimer, and would have lunged if it hadn't been for the arms wrapped around him. "I'm right fuckin' here! I'm not going anywhere with him, or you!"

The reins are pulled tight, and the mules pulling the cart whine loudly, and grind to a halt. Mortimer snaps around like a fiend from a nightmare, face full of nothing but contempt. "You can get out, right here, right now. Go off somewhere and go get yourself pissing drunk in some backwater tavern, if this is how you're going to be, but you _won't_ be welcome back at the hamlet. Or, you can keep your thoughts to yourself, and do as I tell you, because where I'm sitting, you're in no shape to know what's good for yourself."

It isn't the first time, and it certainly won't be the last, that anyone who is hired on to these expeditions has heard this spiel before. Dismas bites his tongue, and rolls onto his side, hugging himself tightly.

It doesn't do much to keep out the chill of the air, but the new coat certainly does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mortimer: Heir  
> Dudley: Crusader  
> Haute: Plague Doctor  
> Aungier: Occultist  
> Ormund: Grave Robber  
> Albelin: Hellion  
> I KNOW THERE'S A LOT OF CHARACTER I HAVE A HORDING ISSUE


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character names at the end because I like my auto gen characters!

It’s all sort of a blur from after Mortimer had chewed him out, for Dismas. A mind shattering ache thrummed through his skull, a familiar one. Only liquor or sleep could remedy it, and the former was kept under lock and key in Mortimer’s trunk.

The nipping cold, bumpy ride, and lingering thought that at any moment he’s going to be kicked out the back of the carriage should have made it night impossible to get a wink of sleep. But lo and behold, when he had closed his eyes the first time, the sun had just been setting, and when he opens them again, the starts are blinking in and out of existence as they pass under tree branches.

In the brief moments of lucidity between the world of the living and that of dreams, he remembers Dudley restraining Ormond for taking a swipe at Aungier, who had the audacity to hum. Of brief, hushed words between Mortimer and Aungier while coming in and out.

A brief stop so Mortimer could read over another letter sent by the caretaker. And the aforementioned heir finally slipping Ormond a sleeping draught, and having her tossed in right beside him while the others took a piss break.

Dismas only lifts himself briefly, to blearily rub at an eye and look around. The old and gnarled trees look familiar. One splintered from a crashed carriage which remains nearby. A boulder reminiscent of a spiraled fossil about 30 yards away. Down the same path they typically take to the cove.

His chest seizes as he jerks up to his knees. Just off in the distance, there’s lit torch. Although Dismas can hear the sounds of the others relieving themselves, he does not, for a moment, take them at their word. So to speak. That could very well be waterskins with holes punched into them. To muffle their sounds of their words.

Their plans to get rid of him, certainly.

When they return, Dismas lays back down, tucked against Ormond’s deathly still form.

“How darling, he must’ve rolled over in his sleep,” comments Aungier as he hops inside. “I hope it’s a restful one. No one causes me more worry than he.”

“You were amongst the first to join the heir’s mission, were you not professor? You must have known sir Dismas for quite some time.”

“Hmm, yes, yes. Dismas and – oh well you wouldn’t know him, but there was another crusader, were with the heir from the beginning. I’m afraid he met a grisly fate against the same man we butchered today. Then there was Haute and Riebou – the oldest of the plague doctors and vestals the heir has employed. Following that was me. So yes, I have known him for a while,” rambles Aungier as he pulls out a hefty tome and flips through it.

“Is that why you worry over him so much?”

“I suppose that is one of the reasons. The poor man has been through a lot. I don’t know what kind of life he led before coming here, but he certainly hasn’t had a carefree one here. That crusader, they were quite close. Brother in arms, polar opposite in faith and morals, and yet against all odds formed an enviable bond. It is a fact of life that we must all die, but so violently in the pitch of battle… We all try to keep friendly here, to make working together easier, but we dare not get closer. Afterall, death in this line is inevitable. But those two… It may not seem like it as times, but his death took a toll on all of us. But no one knows how deeply Dismas suffers. It’s been months, and he’s hardly said a word about the man since – “

It’s at that moment when Dismas choses to lunge with his dagger, only grazing a slash along Aungier’s cheek. “Watch your tongue, old man, before I cut it from your mouth!” he growls. An arm is wrapped around his neck, crushing his throat.

“Calm down now,” Dudley says in his ear. “You’re not in your right mind. If you do not ease yourself, then I will not be gentle.”

Dismas barks out a laugh. “I knew it! The lot of you, all plotting against me. Light, I’m thick, not seeing it until now!” He thrashes weakly, struggling against Dudley’s grip on him. “I should’ve known… I should have known!”

The cart is pulled to a whining halt, the mules stomping their hooves into the dirt and whinnying loudly. Mortimer has the audacity to not only spin around on the bench, but to crawl down into the cart. He should say something scathing, take back that nice coat, and shiny gun and dagger, and leave him to walk off into the woods.

He doesn’t expect the heir to kneel in front of him, and holding one of Dismas’ hands between his own calloused ones – unnaturally cool. “You are not in the right state of mind, my friend. There is no plot against your life. We’re just trying to get you home.”

“Right, because I’m worth anything to you. I know you’re plannin’ on tossing me out on my fuckin’ ass the moment we pull into the hamlet Don't act surprised. I know all about your plans. At least have the damn decency to fire me to my face, coward.”

The look that passes across Mortimer’s face shifts rapidly, too quickly for Dismas to pinpoint exactly what it is. “Oh… That’s not what this is about. I know you’re not exactly inclined to believe me right now, but I will _never_ fire you. You’re family to me Dismas.”

Dismas jerks against Dudley’s arm, making him cough. “Sure have one hell of a way of showing it. Taking me to the cove, leave me to the fucking groupers because you can’t stand the SIGHT of me.”

“The road was blocked, we had to take a short – why the hell am I even explaining this to you? Aungier, do we have another sleeping draught?”

“Don’t you – don’t you _fucking_ dare – “

“I didn’t give the entire draught to Ormond; the rest should knock him out clean until we get back to the hamlet.”

“Touch me and I swear on –“

A little of the draught dribbled out of the corner of his lips when Mortimer pinched his nose, tipped his head back, and poured the content of the bottle in.

It’s bitter, and makes him hack and wheeze. Everyone keeps a tight grip on him until Dismas’ limbs fill with lead, and his head lolls back against Dudley’s pauldron.

Mortimer lugs his body back over to where Ormond is out like a light. “Rest easy now, we’ll get you to the abbey as soon as we pull into the hamlet.” Mortimer takes off his own overcoat and lays it over the both of them, before heaving himself back up onto the driver’s bench.

All at once, the stars and the world vanish from the sky.

Dudley must have pulled him to the abbey when they got in, because the first thing he sees is the domineering statues leering over him. Crumbling, dripping with water still pooled on the roof. Ormond is screeching like a banshee when she, alongside another grave robber and Aungier, are dragged along to help in the graveyard.

The stone beneath the pews are cold and damp, but Dismas can hardly find the strength to complain when he's guided to his knees, and Dudley settles in next to him. "Tryin' to convert me? Good fuckin' luck," Dismas murmurs, smacking away the book that is shoved towards him.

"Believing in the Light should not stop you from quiet contemplation. Going over your actions, and finding a solace in what has happened and what is to come has little to do with religion, though I am told it does help." Dudley chuckles.

"Fat lotta good that'll do."

"Regardless of if it helps or not, it will put the heir at ease." Dudley pulls himself up off of the ground, and trots off to the meditation chambers deeper in the abbey.

Dismas doesn't believe in any God, any higher being that made him doubt his beginning or his inevitable end. Sometimes the things, the unfathomable beings, he has seen makes him doubt, but in the end, there will be nothing. He would get shot, or stabbed, or cursed, or sick, or dangle from the gallows, or throw himself off a cliff, and then there will be nothing. And that will be that.

There was a time when he believed that once he died, decades down the lines in a warm bed with a lover at his side, there would be some being waiting for him. And it would smile at him, and welcome him to a paradise of light, free of suffering. And there he would wait until his lover arrived, and the two of them could spend the rest of eternity together.

But that was wishful thinking. It went down the drain the moment he shot the wrong carriage, killed the wrong people. Saw how little his own life was worth. And as of late, how little that life was in comparison to the horrid monsters that crawled through the shadows.

Mortimer had given him faith that maybe, somewhere in this fucked up world, there was someone looking down on him. Something mighty and sickly and older than the very stone that built the abbey.

Reynauld… It was that holy man who told him that despite the overwhelming forces telling them all otherwise, they could fight in penance for their sins. To become something more than their beginnings. He made Dismas _want_ to believe he could still achieve that idyllic dream of a normal death. That he was _worthy_ , and worth fighting for his own life.

And maybe he was too much of a yellow-belly pansy to entertain the thought before, but in the suffocating silence of the abbey, he could humor the stray threads flittering through his mind with a twist of gut wrenching guilt.

Dismas doesn't believe in happy endings, but Gods did Reynauld make him want to.

His head is fuzzy, and everything nearly blurred together when Dismas stumbles out of the abbey in the wee hours of the morning. The faint, looming glow of the sun is only just starting to light up the washed out skies. It could've been days since he was in there, or hours.

Time’s a bitch to keep in the limestone walls of the abbey.

His head isn't 100% screwed on right, some stones still loose and rattling around inside. But anything’s better than callously sneering at the man who’s giving him chance after chance at a shot at making up for how much of a fuckup he is.

There are still a few lingering threads of doubt left, of what Mortimer really wants from him, and if he’s going to be dumped the moment he isn't of any use. But that’s nothing a night at the tavern won’t wrap up.

Mortimer's a nice guy, a _good_ guy, even. Flawed as any other sinner, but someone with gentle hands and eyes that saw the righteous good in everyone.

But Mortimer’s lingering right outside of the gate to the graveyard, eyes shut tight, and taking a deep swig from a bottle of wine. His jacket is bunched up on the ground right next to him, shirt sleeves rolled up, and dirt smeared across his face and down those perfectly tailored clothes. His forehead is beaded with sweat, and he stinks to high heaven and back.

"Hey, Mortimer," Dismas shouts out, jogging up to him. "I want to apologize, for anything I might've said earlier." He rubs the back of his neck, and holds out a hand. "I, uh, didn't exactly react rationally to what happened back there."

The bags underneath Mortimer's eyes are evermore prominent when he hands the bottle over. "Here, you're going to need some."

Dismas doesn't think twice before he takes a swig. Dry, burning, tasting more like bile than wine. It isn't the expensive, sweet wine Mortimer is often seen sipping. It’s the strong shit the barkeep at the tavern sold mugs of for a few coppers. Home brewed, and stronger than any mead Dismas has ever had.

"Dismas, I–" Mortimer pinches the bridge of his nose, and slumps against the wall of the graveyard. "I don't even know how to tell – Light, you have a pipe?" His hands shake as he runs them through his mussed up locks. "Wait, no, Fresle smokes, not you. Not you."

The bottle clanks against the stone when Dismas sets it down. "What's this all about then? You're up in more of a tizzy then the nuns whenever anyone takes the light's name in vain."

With a snappish movement, Mortimer grabs his coats and folds it over his arm. "Come with me, to the sanitorium. There's something – Dismas, just promise me one thing, alright? No matter what it is that you see, keep an open mind?"

"Can't make any promises," he stuffs his hands in his coat pockets. "But I'll keep it in mind."

There are worse ways Mortimer has tricked numerous people to be institutionalized. He'd once been blind folded and told he was being led to the brothel. Dragged kicking and screaming on his worse days. It isn't anything _anyone_ Mortimer has hired hasn't gone through at some point or another.

Hell, in their first few weeks here, Mortimer had talked circles around Reynauld until he made an oath to go and deal with his kleptomania. He had realized it too late. Light, was he pissed, but true to his word, he went of his own volition.

That was one of the things Dismas had liked about him, he was always a man of his words. No oath or promise had been unbroken or unfulfilled.

Except for one, thought Dismas as his eyes sting, following quickly behind Mortimer.

Despite Mortimer being picky about the habits the mercenaries in the hamlet picked up, the mental ward in the sanitorium isn't used much as of late. Other than a few of the more severe quirks, Mortimer has learned to deal with the baggage everyone here comes with.

The only few who regularly come are a few townsfolk who can't live on their own, and a few lawbreakers, since the town's jail was nothing more than a cage tucked against the abbey.

Fresle stands like a massive, imposing statue outside of the only room with a light still on at this hour. His golden mask gives him an air of cool stoicism, but there is a discontented frown on his lips.

The tension in Mortimer's shoulders dissipated as soon as he sees him. "Thank you," he says just above a whisper, patting on of Fresle's forearms. "How is he?"

"It will not be easy, but he is a strong man. Haute and her apprentice left at the first rising of dawn, giving him a clean bill of health, and Riebou was sitting with him until just recently." He shifts his head, eyeing Dismas. "Is this a wise idea? It may be too soon–"

"Don't you think Dismas deserves to know too?" Mortimer cuts him off.

Without missing a beat, Fresle nods, and steps to the side. Truth be told, Dismas hates men like him at times. Blindly following everything their "lord" said without enough questions, acting like he’s holding himself to a higher moral standard instead of slumming around like the rest of the mercs. But Fresle’s the right mix of honest and soft that he can't find himself able to even dislike him.

Mortimer's hand lands like a feather on Dismas' shoulder, and his eyes hold a pain and clarity that strikes through him like a jab. "I want you to go in alone, but before you do, to answer any questions: I don't know how this happened, and we should consider ourselves blessed for this small miracle."

"What's going on?" The dread that has been rising in Dismas ever since he saw Mortimer outside of the graveyard, alone and dirty, culminates in the chilling nausea. "I'm getting real tired of you not telling us shit anymore!"

"Go in." An order. A rare thing to hear outside of tense battles, when Mortimer barks out for who to do what.

He watches Mortimer the entire time while he opens the door, and closes it behind him. There’s someone strapped down to a bed, he catches it on his peripheries. The clawing apprehension inside of his makes it hard to be certain of anything.

Dismas rests his head against the door, and keeps his hand over the handle, which had already been locked from the outside. Just have to stay in here long enough until Mortimer has had enough of this game, and he could have a drink at the tavern and pass out in one of the stools–

"Dismas..." whispers a hoarse, raspy voice from behind him.

In an instant, the blood in his veins freezes, and every muscle in his body tenses up. Can't look, can't look, just another joke, just another sad, sad imagination.

"Dismas...!" There's a cheer to the voice that only unsettles him more. Just have to keep his eyes closed long enough until it went away. It always does. Just have to put up with the phantom for a few minutes until he can get his head on straight enough to ignore it.

Chains rattle against the bed frame, unlike anything he had ever heard before in one his sick little "imaginings". Dismas spins around, pressing himself flat against the door, and hand on the grip of his gun.

He's there, _really there_ , in full armor, straining against the straps and chains on the sanitorium bed. The plate on his face is lifted up just enough for Dismas to make out his mouth. He can see the bloody gouge on his lips, and the cluster of freckles on the corner of his mouth that always looked like a smattering of dirt. He's smiling, and fighting so hard against the restraints.

Reynauld is here, smiling at the sight of Dismas, and the man himself can't feel any more ill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mortimer: Heir  
> Dudley: Crusader  
> Haute: Plague Doctor  
> Aungier: Occultist  
> Ormund: Grave Robber  
> Albelin: Hellion  
> Riebou: Vestal  
> Fresle: Leper


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual list of character names is in the end notes since I used the names from my main save.

He lets out the contents of his stomach into the corner of the room, which is nothing more than bile and a sip of wine that tastes the same coming up as it did going down. At least he was right about that.

Sick fucking joke, just one last laugh from that nightmare of a necromancer. Just one last laugh at ol' Dismas. Mortimer must have found it hilarious enough to put on this whole charade and bring Reynauld home and everything. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have trusted that bastard.

Once he settles his stomach enough to stop shaking and right himself, Dismas takes an unsteady step towards the bed that Reynauld is tied down. He crosses the room in three large strides until he’s looming.

Mortimer likes to bring strange abominations back from their hunts, other than bodies of the fallen. That was the only thing he seems to like to leave behind.

He left Reynauld to _rot_ , in the dark and crumbling ruins alone. Sputtering and bleeding across the stonework before calling the retreat. The knicks and scratches and twisted metal along the weak point in his armor are still there from his killing blow, but the gushing gash that should be spilling red is missing.

A roiling unease refuses to subside, even as Reynauld's familiar, rumbling voice passes through his ears. Dismas lets his fingers skitter across the pauldron.

He doesn't know if it makes him feel better or worse that it doesn't sink and squelch like flesh as it had in his nightmares.

Dismas places the palm of his hand on his chest plate, running his fingers up inside the lip of his helmet, rubbing circles along the dent from where Reynauld smashed his mouth, and chipped a tooth during the carriage crash.

"Everything's there," he assures, just barely able to grab the end of Dismas' coat in his fist. "I am here, I am real. By the Light, I am alive Dismas–"

"Shut up!" he hisses. Dismas grips the handle of his dagger even tighter, pressing the tip into the gap between his helmet and body armor, the same place as the shot that killed him.

The flesh of his neck flutters as he swallows.

"I don't know who's sick idea this was, but I don't find it very amusing."

"'Tis not a joke, my dear friend. As surely as the sun rises at dawn, my heart beats.” He clenches the tattered end of Dismas’ coat tighter, tugging on it.

Dismas’ eyes flick down. He jerks away violently when the joints of Reynauld’s gloves brush against his thigh. His coat is ripped from Reynauld’s grasp. “Don’t you touch me,” he spits, knuckles white around the hilt of his dagger.

“Dismas –”

“Don’t! Don’t speak my name,” he snaps. Dismas half expects the armor to morph into an abomination, tentacles and teeth and tumors growing from the shadows encased. Not that he exactly waits around to find out.

He slams his fist down twice on the heavy door. “I’ve done this sick game of yours, now let me out!” Dismas peers through the slot on the door, and see’s Mortimer slumped against the wall, head in hand, while Fresle stands next to him. The leper in question looks over, his mouth moving but making words too quiet for Dismas to hear.

_ “Should we let the beast devour Dismas?”  _ Is what his mind conjures.

_ “Yes, yes, that seems the best plan of action. Crazy Dismas’ burdens have finally started to outweigh his usefulness.” _

But Mortimer’s mouth doesn’t move. 

The moments of peace in the abbey helped alleviate some of his afflictions, but the paranoia was like a heavy hand resting on shoulder, cold and clammy, running along his back.

Mortimer pushes himself off the wall, and for a split second Dismas thinks he’s going to walk off, but instead he hauls the door open.

If Fresle hadn’t of been hovering at his side, Dismas would have socked the heir in the jaw. “Just like the old man, aren’t you? Just couldn’t help your curiosity.”

Mortimer can’t meet Dismas’ eyes, and had his arms wrapped around himself. “Would you rather I hadn’t?” His voice is still as stern and solid as ever. “I was given a choice, to bring someone back. Reynauld was on the list of names. The man in there is still our friend. And right now he needs all of us, Light only knows how he must be feeling.”

“Don’t you dare call yourself his friend! You left him to die! Left him alone with that- that monster! You don’t have the right-” Dismas starts to take a step forward, but Fresle slides in front of Mortimer.

“None of us or perfect, Dismas! I made a mistake, alright? I made a bad call, and it cost Reynauld his life. I was worried I’d lose the rest of you.”

“Yeah? Well some of us try to make up for mistakes. I only see you making excuses.” Dismas shoulders past Fresle on his way out. Damn giant. Just for once, he’d like to go headfirst at Mortimer with no one else around. No Fresle, no other adventurers, or those creepy mercs, or the caretaker, or whatever the hell that _thing_ in the sanatorium cell is.

But Mortimer is a big-to-do noble boy who can’t be touched unless he wants to be on the run for the rest of his life. Everyone here would give their life for him, and if Dismas so much as threw a punch, he’d be kicked to the curb.

As much as the thought of putting the heir into place fires him up, lingering dread hangs around like a bad taste in the back of his throat. That _thing_ put it there, and there is only one cure Dismas knew of to get rid of bad tastes.

He pushes out the front door, and kicked it shut. The tavern is in sight, just down the road. Maybe a three minute walk, if he didn’t drag his feet.

But you can’t really go five feet in the hamlet without being accosted by someone or another. Some brothel girls trying to lure him in, or someone looking for a second set of eyes during target practice.

On this occasion, Riebou slips an arm under his, and continues alongside him.

Dismas would have liked to tell her to shove off and reclaim his lost arm, but Riebou flexes her muscles and squeezes his arm. Now, Dismas isn’t scrawny by any means, and he prides himself on his bulk, but the manpower Riebou was supporting is nothing to sneeze at.

“It was a troubling sight, was it not?” she speaks, in that low, honey smooth voice of hers. “Seeing him in such a state… We need to be there for him, you and I.”

Dismas grits his teeth. “It needs to be put down. That thing in there may seem like Re- our old friend, but it ain’t. Tis’ a monster, and I’m not about to let it get the upper hand and bite my head off.”

“How do you know it’s not him?” she needles.

“Call it a gut instinct.”

Riebou halts, and shoves Dismas against the wall of some poor woman’s house. She keeps him pressed there with a forearm to his chest. “And what if you’re wrong? What if that’s not some unholy abomination, but our friend? Would you want to kill him all over again just to assure your own safety?”

“It’s not my own safety I’m worried about, sister!” he barks. “It’s a thing of principle: a monster is walking around, pretending to be our friend. It ain’t right! I miss him, but this isn’t a blessing we have on our hands.”

It’s almost like any other maiden, the way she melts. Sometimes Dismas forgets that she’s a woman, and not a battle hardened warrior of the Light. “Good things do happen, my friend. The Light has given us a miracle, one we shouldn’t take for granted.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never been one to believe in miracles. This isn’t one, just something to keep us up at night.”

Riebou sighs, shakes her head, and lays her hand on Dismas’ shoulder to squeeze it. “I hope one day you recognize the radiance and warmth the Light offers, and stop dwelling on the evils that plague this world. Perhaps some time at the abb-”

“I’m done wasting my time there. Just an empty building full of nothing.” Dismas shoves his hands back into his pockets. “We done here sister?”

“Give thought to what I’ve said today, my friend. We shouldn’t squander this gift from the Light.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Dismas mutters from behind his scarf, and slips his way past to the tavern.

That's Riebou for you, he thinks to himself. Either as tender as a flower, or brutish as a thug. Dismas supposes there were worse people to have on your side. But the force was typical. She had nearly beat him over the head the first time she heard him blaspheme.

Gut instincts didn’t count for much these days, working for the heir. Unless you had the excuse of being so off your rocker, he couldn’t control you. He gave the orders, he carried the good loot, he got out unscathed from every fight, he doled out their good luck charms and planned the excursions and where to go and when.

And so Dismas and many of the others have learned to trust in him. People died, it was a fact of life, but he was good at getting people out of the thick of it scarred and battered, but alive. Dismas had been fine with that too, the deaths. Some people simply had weaker constitutions and couldn’t hang onto their last thread when push came to shove.

But Reynauld wasn’t like that. He was a fighter to the end, and what Mortimer had done was a disservice. His faith in the Light was unwavering in the face of every vile monster they’ve gone toe to toe with, and every bit of doubt Dismas threw his way.

So for one in a long while, he trusts his gut. He trusts that he knows the _thing_ up in the sanitorium could never be Reynauld, not in a thousand years. Because even dead, Reynauld would still have the strength to stop some abomination from using him like a meat puppet.

* * *

The tavern, even in its musty smell, smoke, and crowded rooms is a welcome reprise from the nipping cold outside. Frost is already covering the windows and grass. Dismas gave it a few more weeks before they got a proper snow fall.

It isn’t as crowded as usual. It’s still early in the day, so the only people hanging around are the other adventurers Mortimer hired that had joined their well-established day drinking club. 

Dismas prefers his perch at the bar, pressed against the wall where he has a good view of the door. The bartender is kind enough to let him sit there all day and sip on watered down ale and scribble in his journal.

Some thought it his internal musing, and that was partially true. Most of it was inane poetry. On occasion, when Fresle would come to smoke in silence next to Dismas, on days too cold to stay in the abbey, he would read over and make corrections.

Damn the man for being so well read.

Scanning the room as he enters, he can see Ormond already passed out at a table, a dozen or so empty glasses scattered around her. At another table, that old soldier, Vaux, is sharing a meal with Albelin while she practices her writing. Aungier is making his way out from upstairs, disheveled and limping. He could hear voices coming from the smoke filled back rooms, already at it, or perhaps still at it.

He takes his spot, and the barkeeper waited until he put down his coin before giving him a lukewarm glass.

“Missed ya last night. You got a bottle stashed in your bunk?” the barkeep asks, wiping down the counter.

“Blame his highness, made me go to the abbey.” The beer makes his stomach turn, but Dismas chugs until he doesn’t feel it anymore.

“A shame, hope you didn’t get stuck whipping yourself. That odd fellow, Basagne was it? He came down here one night for a meal and bled everywhere. If Vaux here hadn’t of given him the shirt off his back to stop it from getting everywhere, I would’ve kicked the bastard out!”

Vaux raises his glass of cider. “I’ve bled more on these floors during brawls. Would’ve been a shame if you kept a good man from his supper if he kept adding to your collection of stains.” He pauses for a moment, and looks down at his bowl. “On second thought, perhaps that might’ve been the smarter choice.”

“Oh boooo,” comes a shaky voice. Ormond props herself up on her elbows. “It’s better than half that rotting, raw shit the upper class call fine dining.”

“ _I_ still think we need a cooking pit,” Albelin mutters, her quill scratching against paper.

“And _I_ told you to bring it up with his highness,” the barkeep retorts, throwing his rag in a bucket. He plops himself down on a chair behind the bar, and pulls out a book. “There was quite a bit of fanfare with our boy Aungie last night. He managed to actually work up the nerve to hire services from the brothel. I would say it was a shame he accidentally hired one of Desdemona’s boys, but from the noises he was making, I’d say he was more than fine.”

“VIP suite?” Dismas drawls, making patterns in the condensation.

“Yup. He was quite loud too. Hardly had to get the place to hush up so we could hear. Ahhh Des, she loves tormenting first timers. Why, I remember your first night –”

“Preston –”

“ _Don’t be afraid to bite_ –”

“I swear on the Light…”

“ – were loud enough to wake the dead –”

“I will beat you.”

“ – Mortimer asked me if someone was dying!”

“Okay that’s it!” Dismas knocks back the rest of his glass. “I’m too tired for this crap. Des!” he shouts up the stairs. “I need a room!”

“Single bed, or are you getting a girl?”

When Ormond flashes him a sleezy grin, Dismas’ face heats up, and he stomps up to Desdemona’s office.

“The second one. Is Cinnamon still here?” he asks.

Des gives him a patient smile and puts her quill down. “She had her last customer a few hours ago, so she’s likely gone to bed already. But I’m sure she’ll be up and raring when she hears you’re here. She really did miss you last night. What were you up to?”

“Abbey, Mortimer said I had to. Not really in the mood to chat, he… He got me in a bad way this morning.”

Des hums and pulls out her book. “The usual fee for a room and Cinnamon. If she’s not up for it, I’ll see if Clarity’s up yet.”

“I’d rather you’d just refund me if you can’t get Cinnamon.” Dismas drops the coins in her waiting palm.

“Fair enough. Your usual room is available.”

Dismas gives her a nod before heading down the halls. No one else has the patience or tolerance for the room tucked all the way in the back of the tavern up on the third floor. It’s the farthest from the chimney, and the smallest. But that didn’t matter much to Dismas. When he came here, all he wanted was a bed, and body to warm it up.

Cinnamon had been at the brothel for the longest, claiming some relation to the heir’s old man. An illegitimate grandchild or something. Dismas supposed that the dark auburn hair was a similar shade to the heirs, and was prone to freckles, when whence she got her name, just as the heir does.

Apparently, she had spent some time at the manor as a girl, alongside Mortimer. Despite having no claim to the family name, fortune, or estate, she had been allowed to visit.

She’s not as popular as some of the other brothel girls, because of her small chest and narrow hips, but she fit Dismas’ type. He was certain half of her pay came from him.

His room is chillier than usual, stiller than usual. Like someone had decided to stop time. He doesn’t really want to remove his coat, boots, trouser, or vest, but he doesn’t want to deal with grit in the sheets either. 

So he strips to his sweater, drawers, and socks, and slips under the covers. Dismas leaves his kerchief on the nightstand.

Cinnamon opens the door and enters the room quietly. She doesn’t have her makeup on, and is dressed in a nightgown, wool socks, and slippers, rather than her usual negligee. “I missed you last night Dismas,” she whispered, kicking her slippers off.

“So has everyone else, it seems,” Dimas lifts the covers up. “C’mere.”

Almost like a giddy school girl, Cinnamon bounds over and snuggles up to Dismas, arms secure around his sides. “Always so warm.”

“Could say the same about you.” Dismas cards his fingers through her hair. “It’s gotten so long since I first got here. I don’t think anyone in the hamlet would recognize you if you went out.”

She chuckles and runs her hands up his back. “They always know. But I’m fine here, with the life I have. I don’t care if I can’t walk freely. The people that come and see me here don’t mind as long as I pretend, but I’d be shot if I left.”

“Sins of the father, eh? Or grandfather, rather.”

“Oh shush. Just lay back, and I’ll take care of everything for you.”

Dismas recalls Mortimer saying something similar when he first found his cousin at the brothel. _I’ll fix everything for you_. This mess, this massacre that the heir’s uncle had caused went far deeper than the surface level. The notes the heir found, and the odd voices and visions he saw spoke of even worse, more depraved things.

The townspeople felt only mire towards the man that once ran their hamlet. And when they stormed the manor, only to find a corpse, they sought revenge on the only of his kin left.

A mob wasn’t much against Des’ buckshot at their feet and the fire in her eyes.

In her soft body, Dismas can find a momentary abatement in every sickly feeling that hangs around him like a noose pulled taut. There are no creatures from the beyond looming above them with a thousand eyes, no graveyard stacking bodies on top of bodies in pit graves because there’s simply no more room, no monsters wearing the face of his friends.

No urge to sock Mortimer in the face anymore, either.

Though that might have been a side effect of Cinnamon tying his wrists to the headboard with his own kerchief.

* * *

Even in post orgasmic clarity, which Dismas had been hoping he could use to sort everything out, he couldn’t scrounge up a reason to trust that monstrosity. Just disgust. And hope that, sooner rather than later, someone would put it down.

Someone, but not Dismas.

Cinnamon’s lean form is illuminated by the mid-morning sun filtering in through the cloudy window. She had wiped down Dismas’ chest and face first, before getting out of bed to clean herself at the basin across the room.

Dismas hadn’t found the reason to really speak much in these moments. They were like a tiny little moment he wanted to keep in a locket. Picturesque and serene, like it deserved to be a classical painting.

“You know Mortimer better than anyone, right?” Dismas asks, immediately regretting it as soon as he hears his own voice.

“We grew up together until he and his mother left when he was 10 or so, so better than most I would assume,” she drones, focusing more on the task at hand.

“Would you say he is similar to your grandfather?”

Cinnamon pauses, and gives Dismas a puzzled look. “I mean, they’re both scatter brained, but I’d draw the line there. Grandfather was… Well, you’ve heard the stories. And Mort is Mort. Why do you ask?”

Dismas sigh and lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “No reason.”

Cinnamon slips her nightgown over his head, and steps into her slippers. “There’s always a reason. You know I’m always here to listen.” She carefully lays a hand on Dismas’ forearm.

_ Nope _ . Dismas rolls onto his side, and pulls the blankets up over his form. Only the top tufts of his hair were visible. _What am I, a child_?

“I’ll… Leave you to rest then.”

Dismas only peers out from under the covers when he hears the soft click of the door.

Cinnamon’s piercing eyes are all too much like her cousin’s: able to glance at you and see everything in your soul. If he let her get a good look at him when they weren’t in the throes of passion, she would know everything. She would see everything Dismas shoves into the far reaches of his mind and drag them all forth into the sun and make him confront them head on.

But he didn’t want that.

He thought back on Riebou’s words. _Good things do happen_. Perhaps they do, but Dismas can’t scrounge up reason for why he deserves anything better than a noose or shot to the gut. The things he has seen, the things he has done, especially what he has done to _them_ – none of them were worthy for happy little miracles.

Maybe Mortimer or Riebou are deserving of some miracles, and maybe, if that thing really was Reynauld, it was a miracle for them. But nothing good ever comes about if Dismas’ name was associated. Like a plague of misfortune and bad luck. Sometimes he wonders if he should just leave, if that would stop all the needless deaths in their excursions.

Dismas won’t though, even if he does entertain the thought every so often. This is the best he’s had in a long time: a cause to fight for, competent companions at his side, and a chance at some semblance of redemption. 

That had been the most alluring when he found the flier nailed to the notice board of the next town over.

_ Wanted: Armed men willing to escort a carriage down the old road to the hamlet. Pay is 300g and potential full time employment upon safe arrival. Inquire at room 07 at the Inn for further information. _

He knew the man at room 07, and had encountered him once or twice at the bar. A decent man who would pay for Dismas’ drink on occasion when he hadn’t a copper to his name. Too soft and too spacey to be offering any illicit work. 

At best, he thought it would have been a body guard gig, and at worst, menial labor rebuilding the manor that had fallen into ruins. Even then, he hadn’t of minded the prospect, as it was honest work.

When he found that Mortimer had already hired a _holy man_ of all people, he knew this was going to be his last shot at building himself a life. All he had waiting for him were debt collectors who wouldn’t dare follow him to the hamlet.

Dismas curls in on himself, and clutches the quilt in his hands. Maybe now he’ll be able to drift off and catch a few hours of sleep.

He laid there in bed until the sun was high in the sky, and he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep the entire time he stared at the drains on the wardrobe. He sighs and hauls himself up, and carefully dresses himself. 

He could never really fall asleep well here. Too much noise and direct sunlight. Might as well get some use out of his time if he won’t be able to rest, and go down to the training ring instead. They new highway man was always pestering Dismas for pointers anyways. Maybe today he would indulge him.

As Dismas walks out from the tavern, he sees Mortimer at the cart parked in front of the statue, absently petting one of the horses while sorting out details and doling cash to the caretaker for their supplies. From the amount of food getting packed into the back by Dudley, he assumes it’s going to be a long trip.

Haute passes by and chats for a moment with the heir, but she that manic air around her that says she would be burying herself in some medical project at the sanatorium for the next week instead.

Fresle is by Mortimer’s side, as per usual, impassive as a statue. Dismas wonders how the man does it, remain so neutral at all times. Silent and unwavering. Not a care in the world, as he watched a bird land on the hilt of that massive sword of his.

Dismas might be inclined to think the man is compensating for something, but one sees all in the hamlet barracks. Fresle is definitely proportionate, unfairly so. Whenever Mortimer stops beating around the bush, he’s going to be in for one hell of a surprise, and challenge.

A shiver runs through him. Not really the time or place to be thinking about the logistics of how _that_ endeavor is going to work. But the time and place is never to think about it, so Dismas pulls his kerchief up higher to cover the pink tinge on his cheeks. He couldn’t hold his reputation as being stoic and gruff if people know about how easily his face flushed.

Because at the end of the day, that’s all Dismas had: the coat on his back, and what little reputation he managed to cling to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mortimer: Heir  
> Dudley: Crusader  
> Haute: Plague Doctor  
> Aungier: Occultist  
> Ormund: Grave Robber  
> Albelin: Hellion  
> Riebou: Vestal  
> Fresle: Leper  
> Vaux: Man-At-Arms  
> Basagne: Flagellant
> 
> OC's  
> Preston: Barkeep  
> Desdemona: Brothel owner  
> Cinnamon: Brothel girl/Ancestors granddaughter 
> 
> Also despite reducing the number of characters in the original version of this fic I am physically incapable of not have 50 million characters going at once, sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haaaaaaaa i'm sorry for the 7k of character development i'm dumping on you guys  
> 
> 
> as always character list is at end notes
> 
> **edit:** also me 'n the folks over at the [hornye darkest dungeons discord server](https://discord.gg/Su3Dy2p) [put together a document of medieval treatments and concoctions and what not](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-5YV3y9CNBN3rwajYMgoDSR7et3UC7jhZuAjCeVuZD0/edit?usp=sharing), so go nuts

Sometimes in the hamlet, it feels like the sun never truly rises above the broken and shambling skyline. There are days Dismas can remember, as a child, when the sky was vivid and clear, and the sun was a gleaming pearl that cradled the world with her warmth. 

Once upon a time, his house, though ramshackle, was a perfectly painted doll’s house. The gossamer curtain flitted like bird’s wings in the late summer breeze. The people behind them laughed, tinkling like a jar full of seashells. The sheerness of the fabric obscured their faces. The window sills held small pots of tiny, red flowers.

It wasn’t pretty, not crafted by a skilled artisan honed in his craft. But it was idyllic, like something above had created the perfect, picturesque scene just for Dismas. 

There was nothing like that in the hamlet. Maybe some higher power crafted the carefully crumblings and worn stone, but it was for Mortimer. The man who saw what Dismas would qualify as a shithole, and only saw something to fix.

Old moss grew on the damp, sanitarium walls, and wouldn’t even crumble away as Dismas ran a hand along the walls. 

He’s only here by invitation, by Haute’s invitation. One he would have been glad to ignore if Reibou hadn't hand-delivered it and showed her own. Dismas can see her eyes peering up at the sky from the window of its room.

He doesn’t know what she’s thinking about, the sky was as dreary and grey as usual.

Dismas pulls down his scarf for only a moment, to wipe at his chilled and running nose, before entering the sanitarium. The nurse doesn’t even give him a passing glance as he passes by the medical wards on his way up.

No one is waiting outside the room, which could never be a good sign. If you gave this creature an inch, it would take a mile. His gloved hands only hover over the handle for a moment before he heaves the door open, and slams it shut behind him.

The room was wildly different from the last time he had been here, a few days ago. The restraints on the bed were gone, but the sheets were crisp and tucked in with military precision, and a wool blanket was folded on the end of the bed. On the wall perpendicular to the door was a stool and table piled high with books and loose papers and glassware and vials full of strange concoctions and both discarded and prepped syringes.

On the wall opposite to it was a heavy wooden chair, almost a throne really, bolted to the floor. Leather straps hung from it like wet hair from a downtrodden maid caught in a storm.

And on the edge of it was perched the monster with his friend’s face, elbows on his legs and head hung between his knees. His armor is scattered in the corner, leaving him in just a tunic, breeches, and thick socks. 

Dismas pulls his scarf back up and sneers behind it. 

Reibou turns around when she heard the door, and before Dismas can get out a word her hand is on her mace.

“What’s that thing doing without it’s restraints?” he says, less viciously than he had originally intended.

Its head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and gives Dismas the first good look he’s had at it since well before Reynauld died. 

His beard is longer and more scraggly than the short, sharp lines he normally kept it in. The lines are deeper, more pronounced, the bags darker. His eyes are the same dark blue, like an endless storming ocean, but seem almost glazed over.

It takes a moment, but when it finally parses who it is looking at, a brightness lights up behind its eyes. Like a flash of lightning that stains the night sky. The corners of its chapped lips quirk upwards, just a bit. If it didn’t looked so drained, Dismas is be sure it would have tried to lunge for him.

Without looking up from the papers she is leafing through, Haute snips at him. “There’s enough sedatives in him to knock out an Uca. The damn dwale isn’t as effective as it should be, be it Reynauld is a beast of a man. But at the very least, he’ll be sluggish for the rest of the day.”

“So why are we here then? Need some muscle to strap it down while you pump the damn thing full of drugs?” 

Reynauld lets out a quiet noise at Dismas’ remark, but the man can’t quite make it out.

“As much as I would love to give him the one-two punch of hazewort, followed by fleabane and wine, the situation is a bit more delicate than our normal brute force methods.” Unsatisfied with the loose papers, Haute pulls out a heavy tome with yellowed paper. “It’s a unique opportunity to study the physiology of someone who has been resurrected. But he is… uncooperative, to put it mildly.”

Reibou steps forward and puts a hand on Haute’s back. “His mind is troubled. It’s a wonder that the damage is not so severe, but Reynauld needs familiar faces here for him. To guide him, and reassure him.”

“The only place I’m guiding that thing is to its grave.”

Reibou’s glare shakes him to his core, and he’s certain if Haute didn’t have her mask on, her face would be mirroring a similar expression. 

“This is a joke, call for me when you actually have something for me to do.”

Dismas turns on his heel to leave, but Haute is quick to grab hold of him. Her fingers are like iron claws, but she’s light enough that Dismas could probably just keep walking.

But with some amount of force, she hauls him back and throws him to the floor. 

He tries to get up, but she presses her heel into his shoulder. “I don’t care if your excess choleric is making you testy. If you don’t stay here and help, you better pray the Light takes pity on you.”

“Don’t take the Light’s name in vain,” says Reynauld, voice hoarse and barely above a murmur. 

Haute is one to make good on her promises, so Dismas reluctantly agrees. No matter how that thing makes him feel, he isn’t willing to test the good doctor’s short temper. 

Dismas leans against the desk, staring at the beast wearing the empty husk of his friend. “What’d’ya need me for anyways? Not exactly a science, or pray-away-the-pain type of guy. ‘Fraid you’ll find better help elsewhere.”

A sharp click comes from behind Haute’s mask. “While both of those statements are factually correct, I don’t need you for either. Reynauld needs a caretaker. A friendly face to help him bathe and groom himself, keep him company, and keep an eye on the treatment’s progress.”

“I ain’t touchin’ it. I’d rather run through the cove bare-assed,” Dismas barks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“That can be arranged.”

“You’ll do as I say, or you won’t be getting  _ this  _ back.” 

Dismas can see the damn smirk behind her mask as she pulls out his pistol - he pats his sides and finds a rock about the same weight in the holster - before tucking it into the folds of her dress. 

“How in the-”

“Ormond and the barkeep owed me a few favors, It was as simple as Preston slipping a sleeping draught in your wine, and Ormond rifling through your rucksack while you were none the wiser.”

“You know I need my damned gun, givvit here,” Dismas goes to lunge for it, but Reibou is quick with a hand on his shoulder.

“You won’t be needing anything but what is provided while you’re caring for Reynauld. Nurse Stewart has already been made aware of the situation, and that you are not to leave until Mortimer returns,” she explains. Though her voice is low and calming, Dismas is filled with a burning rage.

“So that was the plan all along, eh? Get me in here then keep me here ‘cause you don’t trust me anymore? Think I’m losing it?”

“I can’t be around you when you’re like this.” Haute waves a hand in the air as she walks past him. “I’ll be in twice a day for his treatments, so don’t think about slacking. I’m sure my punishments will be worse than whatever horrible thing your little pea brain,” she pauses to poke him in the head. “thinks will happen if you come in contact with him.”

“Yeah, like it ripping my head off? That kind of horrible that’ll probably happen! Reibou, you cannot honestly believe babysitting this monster is any kind of a good idea?”

She gives him a sour look that turns his stomach. “Only in the sense that I believe you will harm him. This issue… This- this  _ delusion  _ you hold on about Reynauld is between you, him, and the Light. One you need to work past.” Reibou doesn’t look at him as she leaves the room.

Thankfully, he doesn’t hear the heavy  _ ‘THUNK’ _ of the lock settling in place after the door is closed. But for all he’s inclined to move, it might as well have been. It’s no different from being frozen in spot as you and a bear dared each other to make the first move.

Haute’s table was almost like a lifeline. Plenty of sharp instruments and glassware and poisons scattered about. 

“I know this isn’t ideal-”

“Less than ideal. Actually, this is pretty bottom of the barrel.”

At the sound of Dismas’ voice, Reynauld perks his head up. “Didn’t you say the same after the carriage crashed?”

Fuck, his voice sounded so similar, so nearly indistinguishable that it made Dismas’ stomach recoil. “Crashed, in the middle of brigand infested woods, with two people I could trust as far as I could throw? I’d rather go through that a thousand times over than this.”

“Surely playing nursemaid isn’t too awful. I can promise you I’m not a fussy patient.” 

_ Reynauld sat there, perfectly still, as the needle and catgut pierced his skin over and over. The gash on his arm really did look worse than it was, but was too deep to heal on its own. _

_ “You’re better at this than some of the surgeons I encountered during my campaign.” He kept on looking over at where their bowman, or rather, bowlady, bent and hammered Reynauld’s broken greave. She was no blacksmith, but at least he could wear it properly on the way home. _

_ After all, nothing looked sillier than a knight missing parts of his suit. _

_ “Yeah? Them dandies usually get their training at prestigious schools and work on cadavers. When you run with the nastiest crew in the county, ya gotta learn to patch yourself and your bud up. Never know when a target’ll fight back, or some prick’ll try to take your face off with a broken bottle.” _

_ “Ah, that must be the reason for the scarf then,” Mortimer pipes up from organizing their packs, all the while Guyot, that bounty hunter that always seems to be watching Dismas, continued to stare him down. _

_ “I always did wonder what you kept hidden under there myself. It’s a damn shame, you have such nice eyes,” Bachiler teases. _

_ Dismas, as he has no free hands, ignores the warmth in his cheeks and hopes Reynauld has the common courtesy to do the same. “If you ask nice enough, maybe I’ll show you.” _

_ “Oh Dismas, would you be gracious enough to show us all your gorgeous face?” _

_ “Not the kind of nice askin’ I was thinkin’ about. Though I wouldn’t be adverse if you asked me later tonight, in my bedroll, when everyone else’s asleep.” _

_ Mortimer and Bachiler make noises of disgust in tandem, while Reynauld is nearly silent aside from a quiet chuckle bouncing in his helmet. _

_ “Dismas, you know my rules.” Mortimer almost sounds strangled, and maybe a bit scandalized. Always too easy to rile him up with came to love and loving. Normally everyone refrained from too dirty of jokes, or talking about their sex lives. Unless they were gathered around a table at the bar, it wasn’t polite talk.  _

_ And of course, Mortimer struggled to tell jokes and flirtations from solicitations. _

_ But all of that refrain melted away as soon as Fresle and Mortimer were within 20 feet of each other. No one, not even the most pious of their little gang, could resist teasing them. Mortimer, predictably, got incredibly flustered, but no one could tell if the jokes fell flat on Fresle, or if they just couldn’t read him behind that damn mask of his. _

_ “Aye. You invite one of us, you invite all of us. If you plan on getting frisky with our arbalest here, don’t be shocked if you feel me coming in from behind.” _

_ Dismas chokes on his reply _

_ “No!” Mortimer shouts, almost like an upset child. “No sex! We are in the middle of the cove! Are you insane?!” _

_ “Relax,” says Reynauld, failing to mask his mirth. “Tis’ all but a joke. I’m sure as roguish as our friends are, none of them are foolish enough to attempt sex in this accursed place.” _

_ “Yeah, yeah, a joke,” grumbles Guyot, almost sounding disappointed.  _

_ “Right, of course.” _

_ Over the course of the conversation, Reyanuld had not flinched or moved once. But that didn’t stop the blood from spilling from his found and staining his pants. Dismas heaves out a sigh. _

_ “Oh, apologies friend. Though I have little control over how much I bleed.” _

_ Dismas waves him off and continues his job. “S’fine. I’m not fond of blood, but at least it’s yours. It’s nice to work on someone who isn’t squirmy.” He speaks up and shoots Mortimer a glare. _

_ The man self consciously rubs his side, and ducks his head, but says nothing. _

_ “I’m not a lot of things these days, but I can promise you I’m not a fussy patient.” _

The sudden memory hits him like a mule. It isn’t something he should even remember, barely a few months into this rabbit hole they found themselves in.

“Yeah,” Dismas says distantly. “When it comes to sutures.” He can hardly remember the events himself, but clearly the memory had implanted itself in Reynauld’d mind.

Something so small, so insignificant mustn’t be a good sign. 

“I’ll… be right back. Need to see if Nurse Stewart has a shaving kit.”

Reynauld thoughtfully rubs his beard, which looks more like a feral cat than a man who hasn’t shaved in a week or two, or months. Who knows? His lips quirk up, and there’s a light to his eyes that throws Dismas off his balance as he backs out of the room. “A trim would be nice.”

Dismas takes his time going down the two flights of stairs to the nurse’s station. Nurse Stewart always creeped him about, but he’s certain no one else in the sanatorium would have a razor.

It would be innocuous enough. He would trim that thing’s beard, and when it “attacked” him, he would slit its throat in self-defense. The others would be suspicious for sure, or maybe whatever spell the thing had cast over his friends to make them trust it so much would dissipate.

Either way, that thing would be out of their hair, and they could give their friend a proper burial. Proper final rite. A proper goodbye like he deserved.

Nurse Stewart doesn’t say anything when Dismas approaches her desk, and instead looks up at him with dark, piercing eyes. 

“Shaving kit?” he asks.

She keeps quiet, just stares, for longer than anyone really should. Then she suddenly gets up, retreats into the small apothecary. She returns with a small wooden box that she promptly hands over. “Poor ol’ Dr. Stewart left this here after he passed, bless his heart. It’s been a few years, but they’re still as sharp as the day he died. I use them to trim the plants, on occasion.”

“That’s… great?” Dismas holds the box to his chest. 

“You look a lot like him.”

“Good to know.”

Dismas stands there, no entire sure of what to do. He should get going, but he feels pinned to the spot.

“A kind soul, my dear was. Would never hurt a fly. Well, not unless they were deserving of it. But the sick rarely are.”

“He, uh, sounds like a good man.”

“Oh he was.”

She thrums her fingers on her desk. “Well go on then, that beard isn’t going to shave itself.”

“Yes, right ma’am.”

Dismas moves as fast as his feet can carry him. It feels like Nurse Stewart is right there on his heels, moving silently, about to grab him by the ankles and drag him away if he made one wrong move. He only stops to pick up a bowl of water, some soap, and a rag.

He stops right before the thing’s room. No use in revealing a weakness, or making a fool of himself by being out of breath. He steels himself before entering.

The monster hasn’t moved much, aside from leaning back in the chair. If it hadn’t of opened its eyes upon the door opening, Dismas would have thought it was asleep.

Dismas isn’t inclined to say anything as he set everything down on the cot, and pulled out a pair of scissors from the box. The effort he put into giving the thing an even trim, until its hair and beard close and cropped as Reynauld had preferred, is nearing on the concerning side. 

After all, this thing was a monster, and Dismas is to kill it. But something about seeing that face so disheveled seems wrong, even if the being wearing it isn’t his friend anymore. Like seeing a pair of socks you didn’t wear anymore with holes in them, and getting the urge to darn them.

The thing seems to almost relax under Dismas’ touch. Its shoulders slouch, and its eyes finally,  _ finally _ , close. 

This is it. This is why Dismas did all of this, surely. To lure the abomination into a false sense of security, so when Dismas makes the final strike, it won’t fight back.

He puts away the scissors, and lathers its beard with soap. 

It startles when Dismas drags the blade under his ear. 

“Just a cleanup,” he mutters, scraping away hairs before positioning the blade where its jaw met its neck.

Just one deep, clean slice is all he needs. Then this nightmare will be over, and he can go back to sleep. Fuck his gun, fuck whatever Haute has planned. He needs this, more than he needs Reynauld back and reciting his inane prayers.

He tilts its head back and presses the blade tighter. The muscles in his arm tense. He just needs it to relax a little bit more. He needs this to be finished in one blow. 

“I know you’re not a barber, but for what it’s worth,” And Reynauld opens his eyes. Not the monster, Reyanuld. His dearest friend and brother in arms. “I trust you.” It might’ve been little more than a whisper, but those three words speak of thousands shared in dark bunks, over smoldering fires, and whispered in their bedrolls late at night when they should have been sleeping.

It comes less like a punch to the gut, and more like a grounding, gloved hand to the shoulder. There can be a chance, less likely than winning at dice honestly, or missing a bullet aiming for your head, that whatever the monster was could hold some part of Reynauld in it. And it seems to relish in abusing the kinship Dismas still holds for him.

The part of Reynauld that stared up at him with all the warmth and love he did whenever Dismas joined him in the abbey or bandaged up an inconvenient wound. 

All at once, his malice crumbles away. He can no more go through with his plan than could he enact it on a child. It’s all too similar. His face, the flecks in his eyes, the greying strands of hair, and almost invisible freckles. 

The monster must know this, but Dismas still can’t draw the blade.

Nearly indistinguishable, he only needs to find the differences. He can’t, and because of that, his arm refuses to move. It doesn’t matter that this was some unholy creature.

He can’t kill his closest friend all over again.

He had missed the shot. And because of that, Reynauld died.

This time is more direct, more hands-on, but nevertheless, he can’t look at the shock and pain on that borrowed face, or watch the life drain from Reynauld’s eyes. 

“If you’re uncertain, I can finish the rest from here.”

And that voice.

Heat pricks at his eyes, but nothing comes. Hardly even a hitch in his breath.

The blade falls into Reynauld’s lap. 

He turns around in time to see Dismas stagger to the wall. It seems to be holding up most of his weight.

“Dismas, is everything alright?”

Hearing Reynauld’s voice say his name again drags him out of whatever stupor he fell into. “Just… Fuckin’ finish up yourself.” He doesn’t look back as he leaves.

* * *

Nurse Stewart hurries around with a grim look on her face, putting tools and tonics on a cart. “There you are!” She grips Dismas by the hands and leads him to the desk. 

He wants to pull out of her grasp, tell her to piss off, and sneak out of the sanitorium, but her thin hands are ice cold and pull forth unpleasant memories of straps and shackles and syringes.

“The town lepers have come in for their treatment, and there seem to be even more than last time, oh bother. I’m going to going to have my hands full bloodletting and preparing their medicated baths, so could you handle anyone who comes in, or rings their bell?”

Dismas has little time to utter an agreement before she heads to the small, one-person lift. For as old and decrepit as the hamlet was, the sanitarium  _ had  _ been the first time he’d seen one outside of fantastical stories passed around in the papers.

As it slowly sinks down, she shouts about a book with treatments back in the apothecary.

He can easily leave, no doubt Nurse Stewart would notice for the next few hours. But the thought of what she might do if she ever catches him is worse than anything Haute could ever imagine. All too easy to seek revenge while being treated for an illness he caught scouring dilapidated ruins and poisonous forests.

So he sits at the desk. At least it’s far away from him and makes it easy to ignore any thoughts he may have. Categorizing and logging each little memory and detail of Reynauld that Dismas could drag up from the depths of his mind. To compare against whatever was wearing his friend’s face.

The hours passed by slowly and painfully, however. It was only at the height of the afternoon sun does someone stumble into the sanitarium. And of course of all people it had to be that thin one wrapped in chains and a cloak, hunched over on himself.

“Nurse Stewart?” Medley squints at Dismas.

“Down in the dungeons with the lepers. What can I do ya for?” Dismas leans against the desk.

“My beast and transformations… It causes my body to ache. I need something for the pain.”

Well, there goes his plans of sitting there in silence for the next few hours until the nurse got back. Dismas motions for Medley to follow him back into the apothecary. 

The entire place is full of cabinets with tiny drawers and covered in even smaller glass vials. There is a stove in the back, and nearby a pristinely made bed that hadn’t been touched in a while.

Dismas gets the stove going. “Why don’t you lay down a moment while I get the tincture ready. It’s probably dusty, but we’ve slept in worse.”

The well-worn medicine book isn’t too hard to find, and thankfully it’s easy to navigate, and he finds a good enough recipe that doesn’t sound too difficult. He gets some water boiling while he scours the drawers for what he needs. Chervil, musk mallow, water pepper, opium, henbane, and hemlock. Some of that stuff doesn’t sound like you should be putting it in your body, but Dismas wasn’t a doctor.

Huh, maybe he was too hard on those dandies and their fancy school degrees. 

He grinds them up, wraps it up in cheesecloth, and sets the package in the now boiling water. After a bit more scouring, Dismas finds a few bottles of wine hidden behind a cupboard. He pours a glass and hands it to Medley. “This’ll help ‘til it’s done.”

“Didn’t take you for the doctorly type,” he says into his drink.

“M’not, just following the directions.”

“I meant your bedside manner. Stewart does so much but she… Well, she tries her best, I’m sure. I suspected you’d be more, well, blunt.” The way Medley cowers under that cloak, you’d have no idea what was hiding just beneath his skin. “It’s a refreshing change of pace.”

“Shouldn’t be too much of a surprise, I’ve tended to your wounds more than once.” Dismas is tempted to pour himself a glass but decides against it and drinks straight from the bottle instead.

Medley chokes out a laugh. “You’ve never been one to be particularly gentle, and you chastised me when you had to use the last of the wine to clean my wounds.”

“Yes, well… You know out there we need as much to numb ourselves as we can manage. For a good cause, but it’s a shame to see it go.”

“Tis’ true, tis’ true.” He is quiet for a moment. “I have to admit, I was taken off guard. By you.”

Dismas crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against his chair. “And?”

“You aren’t… what’s the word… unnerved? Wary? Frightened?” Medley pulls his cloak tighter around himself, his body ever so slightly wracked with shakes. Perhaps it was hunger or the cold. Or something else. “Everyone else we’ve worked with has kept me further than arms length. They skirt around me like I’m diseased, more so than they do with our leper colony. All because of something I have little control over."

"That's why they're afraid of you. Lots of folks here think you're an accident waiting to happen. Some of us don't care, but others are worried more about their own hides than makin' nice and keepin' the peace."

"And why don't you care?" The curiosity is thick in his voice.

"Because I'm constantly five bad minutes from offing myself at any given point. I stay around you, and you don't kill me? Then great, I live another day. You turn into a beast and kill me? Then my suffering ends. It's a win-win in my books."

Medley almost looks taken aback. "Dismas that's incredibly morbid of you. But do know I exert an extensive amount of control of my other self. I won't let you die any earlier than the Light intends."

Dismas snorts. "I appreciate the thought, though neither of us has much say in my fate. Care for another glass?”

Medley stares at the glass. For a while, probably longer than was necessary or considered normal. And flicks his eyes over to the bottle, and back to the glass. He smoothly grabs the bottle and takes a long swig, uncaring of the backwash, or slick on the mouth of the bottle.

Dismas is too shocked to even react, not even when Medley pushes the bottle back into his hand.

“Interesting…” Dismas’ voice is uncertain. 

Medley reaches his hand out to skim across Dismas’ bare cheek. His warmth sank into him just from the brief contact. But his hand is wracked with tremors, and his muscles are tense, holding back.

It might have been because, even as a beast, Medley had never once turned on or harmed Dismas, and there was something sad and fragile about him. It made Dismas want to strip him of those chains, and bundle him up in his coat. The man could take care of himself, quite well, and was a tough bastard to take down.

“I- You’ve given me somethin’ to think about. It’s not a no, but I- I need to think about it.” In that moment, Dismas is glad that Medley wasn’t a holy man

“Of course.” Medley gives a timid smile and nod.

Dismas stands up and heads over to the stove. There’s enough in the pot, and from squeezing out the garni to fill up a pint sized bottle. Dismas stops it up, and writes the instructions down on a tag, and ties it to the neck. He hands the warm bottle over, squeezing the back of Medley’s hand with his free one. “Two spoonfuls in a glass of wine or ale will soothe your aches, and it’ll knock you on your ass so take it whenever you drop for the night.”

“Thank you, this means a great deal to me.” Medley gathers himself and stands up, tucking the bottle into a pouch on his side. The hand he places on Dismas’ chest is feather light, and the press of his lips against him is even lighter.

Before Dismas can so much as stutter out a response, Medley is gone, his form briefly blocking the light coming in from the doorway. 

Dismas drains down the rest of the wine. In for a penny, in for a pound. He'd need it to get through the rest of the day. 

Nurse Stewart rapped on the doorway sometime later. Her apron was splotched pink from water and blood. "Ah, self medicating are you? Don't worry, we all do when the days are slow. “See to any patients while I was gone?"

"Yeah, for pain."

She skims her fingers over the open page of the book. "Ah, good choice. That is sure to soothe any aches and pains an adventurer might have."

Dismas heaves himself up from his spot. He didn’t pay any mind to nurse Stewart as she waved him out of the apothecary and shut the door behind him.

Well, there isn’t much he could think of to do now. Reynauld, or that thing, whatever, was off limits. The thought of his face is making Dismas’ face twist and burn in revulsion, and the wine settles heavily in the pit of his stomach. 

A few of the lepers are still standing around in the entrance hall. Their voices were hush, and they lean in among themselves. Few are adventurers or mercenaries, like Dismas himself, and most are nothing more than gangly teenagers, or weathered old men.

When they spot Dismas, they look among themselves, before leaving. 

Dismas huffs. “Guess outsiders aren’t welcome in their little group,” he mutters under his breath.

* * *

Before he can hardly get a few steps up the stairwell, he hears the clacking of Stewart’s heels behind him. “I won’t be presumptuous enough to assume you know how to do the whole “caring” thing, so here is a list of everything Reynauld needs attended to,” she hands him a piece of paper, and closes his fist around it. “It would be in your best interest to not dilly dally.”

Dismas waits until after she leaves to unfold the note. Just nonsense about washing linens and changing clothes.

Fucking- he hadn’t even thought of it. Haute sure drugged Reynauld up something good, and sure as shit would need help changing. Probably couldn’t manage cleaning up his beard, and Dismas’ hands shake at the thought. 

When he enters the room again Reynauld is on his bed, back facing the door. He looks over his shoulder at the loud squeaking.

Dismas doesn’t step in further than the doorway. He crosses his arms and leans against the door jam. “How long have you been wearin’ that?” he asks, sinking further into his kerchief.

It’s a slow process for Reynauld to turn over and sit up. He sniffs the collar of his shirt and crinkles his nose. “Since I, erm,  _ awoken _ . But ‘tis fine. I hardly notice the smell.”

“Uh huh. Ya know I can smell you from here, right?” Dismas sighs and ruffles his hair. “I’ll be back in a tic.”

Dismas supposed if he got boiling water, it would be cool by the time he returned. But it’s still steaming and soapy when he carries the bucket upstairs. Some sloshes out, but if nurse Stewart gets pissed about it, then it’s her problem.

More spills out when he sets it down next to the bed. “C’mon, your clothes are disgusting.” Dismas feels like his heart is contracting when he pulls Reynauld’s tunic off. He can’t see any of his scars or markings with the dirt and grime covering him.

Even though he could care less, he’s gentle in wiping Reynauld down with a rag. His thick chest hair and treasure trail are nearly matted from sweat.

And while Reynauld had been relaxed when getting his hair and beard trimmed, every muscle in his body was tense and clenched. Probably because he knows if Dismas gets a close look at him, he’ll find some difference, some flaw that the necromancer missed and that would be that.

But he doesn’t flinch or wince. Tired as he is, he allows Dismas to move him around while he scrubs until his skin is pink again. 

Dismas doesn’t find anything. Not a scar, freckle, or birthmark out of place. He’d, on occasion, clean Reynauld’s back in the public bath when he was filthy and couldn’t reach it. And yet, everything’s the same. Dismas is extra careful when washing his face.

In the few times Reynauld took off his helmet, he made sure to memorize his face. He rarely got to see his friends face, it was only natural he wouldn’t want to forget it.

He’s a bit rough in pulling off Reynauld’s breeches and is less careful, and much quicker in wiping down his legs. They weren’t as filthy compared to the rest of him, but Dismas still took some level of care, especially with the longer hair on his thighs plastered to his skin. 

That’s when Reynauld’s legs started trembling, ever so slightly, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from moving.

_ Probably restraining itself to not snap my neck,  _ Dismas grimly thinks to himself.  _ Then it’d just reveal that it’s a fraud. Just a burned out after-image of where the Light shone too brightly. _

Dismas jerks when he feels a hand on his head. Not grabbing at his short hair, or digging nails into his skull. He glances up, and there’s a look on Reynauld’s face that Dismas can’t quite place. He’d never seen it on his friend before, and he’s not certain if it’s something the monster wearing his skin is doing.

Reynauld is about to say something, but he closes his mouth and removes his hand as soon as the door opens.

Dismas jumps up just in time to see Haute and Reibou roll a cart in. 

“Ah good! You didn’t just abandon your duties. Good, good…” She rifles around in her dress until she finds and pulls out Dismas’ gun. “Here that is then. I hope I won’t have to confiscate that when you come back.”

“You won’t,” Dismas snatches it from her hand. “Bloody harpy… Wait, come back?”

Reibou gets to placing iconography around the room. “We won’t be needing you for the next few hours, so you’re free to get some fresh air.” And despite gripping the front of his coat, her voice is soft. “But please, do not make me drag you back here.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Dismas doesn’t bother with goodbyes when he stomps out of the room. Nor giving a good night to nurse Stewart as he tucks his gun back into his holster on his way out the front door.

* * *

The only question he has was what was he going to do now? The sun was just beginning to set, and as much as he wanted to drown himself in ale, the thought of being around so many people made his skin itch.

The bunks would be quiet at this hour, but he was nowhere near tired enough to rest his eyes. At yet, not wanting to linger at the entrance of the sanitarium, he headed that way anyway. 

With his hands shoved in his pockets, and kicking a stone down the courtyard, he idled. Too much so, enough that when he passes by the leper house, the ones enjoying the last inklings of sunlight, watch him. Masked heads following him like eyes in an oil painting.

“Hey,” one tentatively called out. 

Dismas looks out of the corner of his eye. It’s one of the behemoths Mortimer had hired, Merteberg or something. It made him wonder if Mortimer had a thing for big, necrotic men. “What’d’ya want?”

“Do you want to come in for tea?

“I won’t find a finger in it, will I?”

The lepers are silent for a moment, before whispering to each other. Merteberg finally lifts his head. “We can’t make any promises that they won’t fall in. But we’ll make sure to take them out before serving it.”

A chuckle from Dismas, especially in these dark days, is rare. “Hey, extra protein, right?” 

Almost as rare as seeing a smile on the lepers’ faces. Dismas could understand a thing or two about perpetual pain. At least when it was on the outside, you could medicate until it numbed away. But on the inside, no matter how much medicine, or liquor, or time, you had, it wouldn’t stop it from festering. “So, why the sudden invitation?”

Merteberg waits while the others rush inside the house. Disease could hamper their spirits, but never the spryness of their youth. “We thought you looked… hm, well, not happy. Many of the younger children have heard tales of your battles, from me or Ros. They admire your tenacity, in a sense. With what you do… you’re a hero.”

Dismas rubs the back of his neck, and lets Merteberg lead him through the house with a hand on his back. “I’m not a hero. Jus’ doin’ the job I’m being paid to do. If they should be lookin’ up to anyone, it should be you. Or Fresle.”

They sit across from each other at a large table, where a few of the other lepers are already sitting and pouring drinks. “Many of us have learned to live a life of humility and simplicity. However, the children are eased by the thought that their town is being protected by the man who can’t be killed.”

“Huh so that’s what they’re callin’ me.” Dismas is handed a cup of tea, but doesn’t dare remove his kerchief. His face is burning so hot he’s sure it matches the color of his scarf. He knows he’s a badass who killed a lot of bad things, but this feels like a bit much. Instead of pulling his kerchief down, he simply puts the cup under it to drink.

When Merteberg gives him an odd look, he darts his eyes away. “M’nose is cold,” he grumbles.

It makes the lepers laugh. “Dismas, regardless of what you think of yourself, we’ll always welcome you here.”

“Didn’t realize we were such good friends.” It comes out a bit more bitter than Dismas intended.

“We can always… work on that.” Merteberg reaching over and brushing his fingers against the back of Dismas’ hand goes unnoticed by the other lepers but has Dismas sputtering.

“Yeah I’m sure we could,” Dismas squeaks out.  _ What was this, national flirt with Dismas day? _

“Many of the other lepers have a level of respect for what I’ve done. Enough that I have my own room. It’s not large by any means, but it is secluded. We could certainly get to know each other better there?” Merteberg had stood up, and motioned for Dismas to follow him.

While he sets down his cup, Dismas’ mind races.  _ Should I? Shouldn’t I? Should I? Shouldn’t I? I don’t even like guys. And if I did, I don’t think I’d find a leper attractive. And he’s so much bigger than me! He could pick me up and… do whatever… he wanted to me, if he felt like it…  _

Dismas’ body is already moving. The hand Merteberg rests on his back feels a lot heavier, and a lot warmer. 

The room he’s led into is a lot smaller than he anticipated. The head and foot of the bed touched opposite walls, and there’s just enough room between it and the wall the door’s on for a chest. There was even less room on account of the sloped ceiling that even Dismas had to duck his head down to avoid. 

After Merteberg closes the door, he gently wraps his arms around Dismas’ shoulders. “Just know if you’re uncertain, I will not hold it against you. But I will make this good for you.”

And Light help him, because he wasn’t. Cinnamon is small and soft, and that’s why he likes her. She isn’t like the hard women he fights alongside. He can forget everything when he was with her. 

Merteberg is a solid wall who enveloped him like he was a doll. And it unnerves Dismas that he doesn’t mind. A small part of him doesn’t want to keep up the tough and gruff facade he’d built. But he also doesn’t want to come out and spill his feelings everywhere like some pansy.

But... Not having to take charge was nice. He always wondered why Cinnamon was so happy with taking orders from him, aside from the money. And maybe tonight, with Merteberg, he would find out.

“M’fine. Let’s do this. Just make sure I’m not walkin’ funny in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yes, don't worry, next chapter will/will start with dismas getting his world rocked by merteberg. on a side note: yes, I have a weird fixation on hands and eyes, and yes, I personally cope with trauma via sex and so will dismas
> 
> Mortimer: Heir  
> Dudley: Crusader  
> Haute: Plague Doctor  
> Aungier: Occultist  
> Ormund: Grave Robber  
> Albelin: Hellion  
> Riebou: Vestal  
> Fresle: Leper  
> Vaux: Man-At-Arms  
> Basagne: Flagellant  
> Bachiler: Arbalest  
> Guyot: Bounty Hunter  
> Medley: Abomination  
> Merteberg: Another Leper  
> Ros (mentioned): Another, another Leper
> 
> OC's  
> Preston: Barkeep  
> Desdemona: Brothel owner  
> Cinnamon: Brothel girl/Ancestors granddaughter  
> Nurse Stewart: Sanatarium nurse


End file.
